


Ruminations on the Neck of Karl Urban

by thalialunacy



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Chris fails to write poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruminations on the Neck of Karl Urban

**Author's Note:**

> [   
> ](http://thalialunacy.livejournal.com/1062262.html?thread=8734582#t8734582)

Poetry, perhaps, I could compose about this piece of magnificence before me.

A sonnet, three stanzas; one about the left side, one about the right, and one about the space right under the chin; and then the couplet would by necessity be about his Adam's apple, which just now bobbed up and down as he swallowed back a groan. He's tried to say my name a few times now but has only gotten as far as the unvoiced plosive, and that's just fine with me—although the attempts force his body to expand with air and the skin under my lips moves and reminds me that he is alive, and he is here, and he is for me to behold.

He is waiting for me to pillage and plunder and have my sweaty, gangly way with him. But I have yet to make it past his neck.

Free verse would perhaps work better; there are no boundaries with regard to meter or rhyme so I could just go on in short fragmented lines about my feelings, because that's what free verse is usually about; the first part about the way my heart thumps solidly in my chest as he shifts against me, as his hands scrabble against my scalp and smooth down my sides under the covers; the second part about the way I only have an inkling about what he wants from me, because we're new at this, at each other, but I know that whatever I give him will be enough, because he's him and we've always been thus; the third (because you can never have too much Christian allegory in modern poetry) will be about the sunlight through the window…

Except there is no sunlight because it's two in the morning and we just got done shooting and had no will or energy to do anything but come here and… well, come.

Hey, my degree's not in poetry. Not specifically. I took a shitload of classes on it, yes, and here you are witness to exactly what I retained: the ability to apply it to the human body.

This body, though, even just this neck… so many options. So many words. I am at a loss, my thoughts disorganized, the words that are usually at my command instead a chaotic mess.

Perhaps just a list will do, bullet points of desirability. Taste: like French fries and sunscreen and showers and exotic places. Smell: like mornings and sunshine and sex and that mysterious y-chromosome that is rarely so enticing. Touch: like flower petals and sandpaper and bones and elastic.

But even that will never do.

Instead, I give up and give all I've got left: a laugh, low and sweet and reverberating through the skin I've been worshipping, and one word, whispered out on a hiss and a kiss of air.

 _"Mine…"_

 _  
**FIN**   
_


End file.
